Eye On The Target
by Blue-Eyed-Wall
Summary: Déesse has been running from people who want to use her for their own benefit, and now they have an assassin to kill her. It's a game of Cat and Mouse - but this 'game' could end in blood. WARNING: Swearing later on, character death, and the gory details.
1. Prologue

**This is just the prologue, remember that. The high-end action, suspense and danger comes in later chapters. In a few chapter, Déesse has flashbacks of Aleksandr - how they met, how close they got, his death, and so on . . .**

**Read Déesse's history mainly, just so you don't get confused at to what is happening in later chapters, please. I hope you enjoy this story - so far I like writing it. For those of you that _do_ review, you get an preview of the next chapter. There, that's the deal.**

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**Codename/s: _Desiree la Cavante_; _Delilah Chandler_; _Camaren Jos__é  
_****Name:** _Déesse de Bordeaux  
_**Age :** _31_

**History:** _Her father, Feu de Bordeaux, taught Déesse how to handle many guns and knives – he also taught her how to fight without weapons, or use make-shift weapons, and silent break-ins. Her mother, Lumiére de Bordeaux, taught Déesse the art of silent kills, tracking anyone from a distance of thirty miles, evading a tracker, and killing someone without being in the same room as the victim so that the kill does not relate back to her.  
__At the age of eleven, men barged into her house – Matanza's men and he – tied up Feu and Lumiére and tortured them for two hours, trying to get information on their boss, Tennyson Johnson – their will never broke. Déesse silently made her way down stairs – like her mother taught her to – and saw the men kill her parents. Déesse packed some clothes, the money her parents had saved up for her, some food, a few bottles of water and thick boots and ran from the house via the basement window.  
__At the age of fifteen, the CIA, FBI and Quantico went to England and caught up with her and drugged her so that they could take her back to base, wanting to use her for their benefit. However, Déesse refused to do so for them and fought back – many men from the CBI, FBI and Quantico died from her hands. She was adamant that she would not join their forces and that she would kill Matanza and his men for what they done to her parents. After one year, she escaped from the cell that they kept her in.  
__At the age of seventeen, she had made a secret 'cult' that she held reign over, though she did not enjoy the richer life – after four years of hunger, thirst and living on the road by herself, always running, she didn't like staying in one place for so long as she did; she felt too exposed and thought that she would be caught again. She ran from her 'cult' leaving another in command and she went to Russia's wilderness.  
__At the age of twenty four, she was still running but she had a partner with her – Aleksandr Korolev. He was twenty five and he was, too, on the run from the FBI. They stayed in abandoned huts out in the Ural Mountains and they kept themselves hidden. One day Déesse went out to hunt and when she came back, Aleksandr was dead; he had been shot three times – once in the head, one in the heart and another in his stomach. Déesse once again packed the small amount of things that she owned and ran away – it seemed that running away was what she was used to. She ran to Northern Greenland, hoping to throw the CBI, FBI and Quantico off her trail. She has not been heard of since, other than she is now an assassin._

**Identifiable Marks:** _Two bullet wound scars on her abdomen._

**File Closed

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The icy blue-eyed man re-read the file notes, memorising every piece of information, knowing that every typed letter counted to finding her and killing her. Alex Rider was back in school while he was still at work – thirty five years old and he was still going at it, still good at his job, never stopping. Maybe it was time for him to stop. Maybe his time was over – he was getting old, anyway. A tap on his door alerted the man to someone outside his room. Quantico and the CBI had . . . _employed_ him after noticing his 'assassination' skills, and thought him good enough to do this job.

"Come in." The man called out, no emotion in his voice. There never was. It wasn't helpful in his profession to feel for anyone – or himself. If he felt scared for himself after being shot, he had less chance of survival. The door opened and Sir Cavery smartly walked in with his new Armani suit and his new Armani shoes. Everything about Sir Cavery was polished and upper class – it was obvious that he belonged to the richer lifestyle than the lower class. He grew up with money surrounding him, and he liked to keep it that way. Sir Cavery smiled tightly, his chin raised in a arrogant way, his steel grey eyes supercilious and impolite. Sir Cavery smirked.

"I thank you for accepting," the blue-eyed assassin held in a snort – _accepting_? He was drugged and brought to Sir Cavery's office and was given a choice – take the job or die. "And I hope you have _enjoyed_," Sir Cavery sneered the word 'enjoyed', "your stay here for the past two days and three nights, but it is time for your job. We have caught sight of Déesse in Bordeaux, France – her home town, but you know that – and we need to strike while she is still there. Knowing her uncanny ability to hide under the FBI, CBI and Quantico's radar, she will simply disappear within the next three days or so. There is a jet waiting for you on the roof, Mr . . ." Sir Cavery held a curious glance before he covered it up with arrogance once again. It wasn't that he didn't know the mans name, he just couldn't pronounce it all that well, and he did not want to offend the assassin that he had hired. The assassin resisted the urge to shoot Sir Cavery, wiping that irritating smirk off of his face once and for all. The assassin smiled as warmly as he could. He said three simple words that sent people's hearts into a frenzy, putting layers and layers of fear in to them. Those three words were:

"Gregorovich – _Yassen_ Gregorovich."

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**Wow - nearly two pages of words. Awesome. If you didn't read my authors note at the top of the page, go back up - that stuff is important to read. Remember, R & R for me, please!**


	2. L'eau Café, Bordeaux, France  10:49am

Déesse de Bordeaux sat outside of the French café, waiting for Jacque to make his appearance. He was Déesse's informer, her private investigator, if you will. Well, he wasn't an investigator as such – he worked for Sir Cavery, so he knew what was going on inside the heavily guarded walls. Déesse knew that Sir Cavery's men had caught her scent, but only because she let them catch sight of her – they had precious information that Jacque wasn't willing to give her since his life would be on the line, not just his job. Jacque had apparently heard of an assassin being brought in and he was going to give Déesse all the files he could manage to copy for her. It was dangerous stuff for Jacque to go sneaking around Sir Cavery like that, but that was one of the reasons why Déesse was prepared to take a chance on Jacque – he was willing to do her will. Déesse heard footsteps silently making their way up to her, but Déesse didn't move – she knew who it was.

"Camaren," a voice whispered in her ear. Jacque. Déesse smiled wryly, noticing the briefcase that held; a rather large briefcase, at that. He obviously pulled a lot of strings and destroyed many security camera's to get that much information. Jacque grinned boyishly at Déesse – she was quite good looking, she just covered herself up too much. Déesse's green eyes seared into Jacque's brown ones, searching for any trace of betrayal or hesitation – if he had hesitation in his eyes, Déesse would have to dispose of him; she couldn't have anyone backing out on her, not when she needed the informers most. She had people in CBI, FBI, Quantico, Jacque in with Sir Cavery, the White House, the Houses of Parliament, and with Mrs Jones and Mr Blunt at their HQ in London. Déesse leaned into Jacque, trying to gain his confidence in her.

"Jacque, my darling – what have you got here?" Déesse purred in her French accent – she could take away her French accent if needed. She knew French, of course, Spanish, Russian, Italian, English – once again, of course – Latin, Greek, Mandarin, Japanese, Chinese, Greek, Dutch, Danish and Welsh. Jacque grinned from ear to ear, obviously proud of himself of the information that he had gathered – Déesse smiled tightly back at him. Déesse scanned the area, aware of several men and women that didn't belong in the large square. They stood out like tigers in a pen of kittens – and that's exactly what they were: Tigers. They prowled after their prey, strong and dangerous compared to those who they killed. But Déesse was different. She was just as lethal as they were; Déesse knew it, the Tigers knew it. Everyone who was against and with her Déesse it. Déesse flipped through the pages, her never faltering memory coming in handy. See, Déesse wasn't stupid; in fact, she was extremely smart. 187 IQ, photographic and eidetic memory, able to read 25,000 words in one minute, 100% accuracy in shooting – even from 300 yards, a _Dan_ in Karate, Tae Kwan Do, Aikido, Kendo and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, she knew how to ski, water ski, sail, drive any car and motorbike, fly a seaplane and helicopter, cliff dive, she could run miles without even panting, she could swim, cycle, cart-wheel; she was almost inhumanely fit. She could pinpoint any country on a world map within seconds, and recite world history fluently. She was the perfect assassin – yet she demanded to work for herself alone. Only very rarely would she take an offer, and that was only when she intended to kill the person sooner or later – money for it anyway. She knew how to keep her emotions in check. Smiling, sadness, joy and anger were now a distant friend to Déesse.

"Anything and everything, Déesse," Jacque blanched at Déesse's icy glare. "Sorry – _Madame de Bordeaux_ – from the information that I have heard, a Mr Gregorovich has been assigned to kill you. He is a Russian contract killer, thirty five years of age, light blonde hair, blue eyes –" Jacque explained and Déesse's jaw clenched. She knew _that_. She had already known about Mr Yassen Gregorovich, God damn it. Jacque cut off his miniature speech to stare at Déesse, aware of her blank face – before it was slightly friendly and warm, now it was cold and calculating. Was she planning his death? _Here_, in front of _all_ these witnesses? Jacque tried to lean away from Déesse without her noticing, but the twitch in her eyes which followed his, told him otherwise.

"I know this, my darling Jacque," Déesse barely held in a hiss. "I want to know what his specialities are – guns, knives, fists, and so on. I want to know his weaknesses – dead partners," Déesse held in a wince, "dead relatives; his _weakest_points, Jacque. If you can't tell me that, I'm afraid that you are of no use to me anymore. Do you understand me, Jacque?" Déesse warned Jacque, snarling his name all three times. Jacque ducked his head, scared of the not-joking look in her eyes – everyone knew how dangerous Déesse was, how her moods changed. One minute happy as can be, the next angry and shooting you. If you even _said_ the wrong thing . . . _bang! _you're dead. Déesse pursed her lips, leaning back in the white, iron, intricate French chairs of the French café. Everything in the street that they were in screamed 'French' – nothing was foreign. Obviously this street was proud on their origins and where they were. Déesse scowled.

"Yassen has no weaknesses, and if he does, not even Sir Cavery knows of it, I assure you of that. His strong points . . . Everything, Madame de Bordeaux. His instructor was Mr John Rider – Alex Rider's father. You have heard of him?" Jacque inquired softly, eyes still wide with fear of Déesse. Déesse resisted the urge to take her 9mm Russian 'Baikal' Makarov semi-auto pistol that was hidden in the inside pocket of her large coat, and shoot the insufferable Jacque that refused to tell her his surname. Déesse froze in mid-thought. _That little . . ._ Déesse hissed wordlessly, a growl making it's way out of her throat, warning _Jacque_ of her anger that was rising. She _knew_ that she had seen him before, and she had! He was too young to be twenty four – he was the scrawny little sixteen year old kid that had seen his step-dad being killed, six years ago, by her favourite Russian pistol that she carried then. He was Daniel Tucker, son of Sam Tucker, step-son of Michael Corso. _Damn it!_ Déesse leapt from the table, snatching the briefcase, and very aware of the fact that too many not-belonging people had made their way into the square while she was momentarily distracted by _Jacque_. Yassen must be on his way; they were waiting for him to arrive to kill her. He wanted to be the one to kill her, no one else but him – he was assigned to her, so he felt responsible to kill her, to make sure that _his_ face was the last face that Déesse ever saw. Not if Déesse eliminated _him_ first, that is. Déesse made a vow to herself, a vow that she would keep no matter what. A vow that was near unbreakable – another could kill Yassen first e.g. any one of his enemies, Sir Cavery, Daniel Tucker – also known as _Jacque_ – or Alec Rider. Déesse knew Alex Rider's and Yassen Gregorovich's history – everyone in the assassin business did. It was monumental, amazing, surprising, and shocking. John Rider and Yassen were good friends. Was the friend-like thing between them not genetic? Déesse guessed not. Déesse slid into her yellow Lamborghini Murciélago and sped away into the road of expensive and conspicuous cars. No one would ever know it was her.


End file.
